Dream a Little Dream

Chapter 47

A month has passed. A month of quiet for some, for others, monumental changes.

Sam McCall was facing some of the biggest changes. On the advice of John Durant and Luke Spencer, she had kept her recent windfall a secret from all her girlfriends except Gia Campbell, who acted as her attorney in buying the ranch house that had captivated her during her house-hunting. Even though she had more than enough money from the diamonds her father had given her, she took out a mortgage to avoid questions and scrutiny. The money Luke had gotten for a few of her diamonds was going towards major renovations, which were speeding along.

Epiphany Johnson had passed her state nursing license exam, and would be starting her job at General Hospital today. Stan had yet to find full-time work, but was doing a temporary job for the Spencers, updating the business software at Vagabond and Luke's.

John Durant and Lesley Webber had gone out on several dates, to the delight of Lesley's daughter, Laura Spencer, and the chagrin of John's daughter, Carly Quartermaine. Heather Webber was also none-too-pleased about the turn of events, and was wondering what to do about it. Bobbie Spencer, Carly's mother and John's old flame, watched in what she called to herself amused detachment.

Others were settling into new situations – Lulu Spencer at Port Charles High School, Patrick Drake into the internship at General Hospital, Dillon Quartermaine and Lucas Jones at Port Charles University, Tracy Quartermaine and Coleman into their relationship being public knowledge.

And now, back to the story.

* * *

Epiphany looked at the her name on a little placard above her assigned locker in the nurses' locker room at General Hospital. She'd just been issued her padlock and employee ID badge. Since she'd had a few weeks waiting for the results of her New York State licensing exam, Bobbie had helped her do some preliminary things such as getting her on the scrubs order list, filling out insurance and tax forms, and getting her personnel file started.

Outside of work, she had also taken the time to get to know Port Charles a bit. Lulu Spencer would often stop by after school, and would ride shotgun with her in the yellow Cadillac while Epiphany ran errands and learned the lay of the land. She learned to avoid Onondaga Avenue, the most direct road to General Hospital from their apartment over Vagabond, at rush hour and to instead drive over to the old ball bearings plant and go downtown on Cayuga Avenue, then turn onto Erie St. to get into the employee parking garage.

In between, she was helping her parents with insurance paperwork for their devastated home back in New Orleans, and getting them settled in Port Charles. Their Social Security and Medicare changes-of-address had gone through, and they were both getting care at General Hospital.

Epiphany quickly changed out of her clothes and into the scrubs and sensible shoes. She clipped the ID badge to the bottom of her shirt. One last look in the mirror, and she headed out the door to go to geriatrics, her first assignment.

* * *

Lucas Jones quickly gulped his cereal, pretending he was rushing off to classes. That way, he wouldn't have to play 20 Million Questions when he told his mom his weekend plans.

“Slow down, Lucas, you'll make yourself sick!” Bobbie admonished him as she put her keys in her purse.

“Sorry,” Lucas mumbled around the Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

“Oh, by the way,” he continued after swallowing, feigning casualness. “I'm not going to be around this weekend. Going over to the Berkshires.”

“What's going on?”

“Guys from camp getting together,” Lucas said. Well, it wasn't a total lie...

“Really,” Bobbie said dryly. Lucas somehow kept a straight face as he wondered if he was about to be busted.

“It's just guys? No girls?” she asked. It took everything in Lucas not to gustily exhale.

“No girls,” he said. “Promise.”

“Ah, a male bonding weekend,” Bobbie said.

“Something like that,” Lucas said.

Relief flooded Bobbie's face as she picked up her bag.

“That's fine,” Bobbie said. “I don't know if I'm ready for you to be going off on romantic weekends.”

“Mom!!!” Lucas said in mock indignation.

“I know you won't be drinking because you'll be with other diabetics, so I won't lecture you,” Bobbie said. “Have a good day. Let me know if you need anything washed for the trip.” She kissed his cheek and left for work.

He sat at the table for a few moments struggling with the relief, fear, anger and sadness in him. With a sigh, he put his empty cereal bowl in the dishwasher, then picked up his backpack and left for classes. As he let his car warm up, he sent a text message to Brandon: “C U FRI.”

* * *

The new bath towels were a rich chocolate brown. They went perfectly with the deep golden sand color Mary Bishop had painted her bathroom. She smiled in satisfaction as she hung a hand towel on the antiqued bronze towel ring.

She'd accepted an offer on the cabin in the woods the week after Karen Wexler's birthday party. The buyer was a wealthy downstater who came to the area for hunting trips regularly, and was willing to pay cash on the spot so he could have the place in time for deer season. Mary snapped up the offer and, the following week, bought a three-bedroom end-unit townhouse down the street from Gia, who helped with the legal paperwork. Karen let Mary stay with her for about 10 days while the townhouse was painted. Her boss, district attorney Ric Lansing, insisted she take the week off to settle in.

Mary took little with her when she left the cabin. The buyer offered a little extra for virtually all the furniture. She took her old hope chest, a corner bookshelf Connor made for her on his last leave, a pile of quilts made by Connor's grandmother and great-grandmother, her wedding china and silver, her wedding crystal, her clothes, photos and a few knickknacks. That was all. The rustic, country-style furniture and décor didn't fit in her new life in the city.

It was an easy move. Everything fit in Lucky Spencer's SUV, and her car. When they pulled into the driveway of her townhouse, she realized that she didn't even look back when they drove away from the cabin for the last time. It was strange. Almost her whole life with Connor had happened there – it was where she and Connor lived after getting married, where she waited for him while he was away on duty, where she hid like a wounded animal after his death. And she'd left without a backwards glance.

She knew that part of her would always miss and love Connor. He was embedded in the roots of her life. Mary honored that by setting aside his family quilts for the guest room bed, when she put it together. The hope chest would go at the foot of the bed. Their wedding picture – she in her late mother's wedding dress, he in his dress uniform – was on the guest room dresser. His war medals were in her dresser drawer.

The townhouse was completely different than the cabin. Instead of trees dimming the sun, daylight streamed in through the white-painted wood blinds. She'd left their old bed with its log headboard behind, buying a honey-stained maple sleigh bed with matching dressers and nightstands off someone on Craigslist. The bookshelf was in a corner, holding a few treasures such as her family's photo albums, her wedding album, and a spotted china dog her father had won for her at the county fair when she was five.

Connor had detested floral bedding, so they'd always had sturdy plaids and stripes. This bed was as feminine as Mary could make it, with a “shabby chic” bedding set in blue and pink florals, with eyelet-trimmed sheets and bedskirt, and one of Connor's family's quilts as a throw at the foot. Mary giggled as she imagined Connor mocking her her “girly” bed. Six months ago, the thought would have brought on sobbing.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Mary ran downstairs to answer it.

* * *

Amy Vining was working the nurses' station that morning in geriatrics. She gave a brilliant smile to Epiphany as she approached.

“Welcome aboard!” Amy said with a happy bounce. “You ready to start?”

Epiphany grinned. “I've been ready for weeks,” she said.

“Okay,” Amy said. “Breakfast was served about an hour ago, so the patients should be ready for bathing and another round of vitals. You take the rooms on the left side of the south hallway,” she added gesturing to the hallway directly behind her.

“Got it,” Epiphany said, and went to the supply closet to load her cart with towels, water bowls, washclothes and cleaner.

The first few rooms went smoothly. One older woman declared Epiphany “the best one yet. I haven't felt this clean since I got here,” she said. It was like a badge of honor to Epiphany.

She didn't get to enjoy it long.

“Good morning, Mr. Hoffman,” Epiphany said, coming into the room. “I'm Epiphany Johnson and I'll be bathing you this morning.”

“The hell you will,” the old man snapped. Epiphany looked up from the water bowl.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“You deaf, girl? The. Hell. You. Will,” he said.

“Is there a problem with getting a bath? Is there something I can help you with?” Epiphany asked patiently.

“You can help by getting that pretty nurse – Melissa Bedford – in here,” he said. “I want her to bathe me.”

Epiphany decided to play along. “I'll go see if she's here,” she said.

At the nurses' station, Amy saw Epiphany leave the room and come her way.

“Let me guess,” Amy said. “Mr. Hoffman wants Melissa Bedford.”

“Yeah,” Epiphany said. “Should we get her?”

“She's on vacation,” Amy said. “And even if she wasn't, I'd say, 'Hell, no.' His favorite hobby is humiliating nurses and trying to reduce them to tears. I don't say this of many patients, but he's a jerk.”

“It's probably fear or something else sad bringing this out,” Epiphany said. “I've dealt with cases like that before. I can handle it.”

Epiphany went back into the room.

“Nurse Bedford is off, Mr. Hoffman,” Epiphany said calmly. “You're stuck with me. And no more cussing.”

“Then I'm not getting washed today,” Mr. Hoffman said curtly, folding his arms. It was all Epiphany could do not to laugh. The glare, the gesture both evoked Stan at five years old refusing cauliflower.

“Mr. Hoffman, you need to wash,” Epiphany said. “You have healing wounds that could get infected.”

“Don't tell me what I need, girl,” the old man said. “I don't know you and you aren't washing me, even if you were pretty. Now get out of here!”

Epiphany folded her arms. Enough was enough.

“Mr. Hoffman, in the last six weeks I've taken my family out of the only home we've ever known, then watched it get drowned,” she said coldly. “We're living over a restaurant and have nothing but what we brought with us. This job is all I've got to take care of my parents. If you think after that some mean old geezer is going to be able to break me, you're crazy enough to be moved down to the psych ward.”

The old man looked keenly at her. Epiphany glared back. Then he laughed – or, more accurately, let out a rusty cackle.

“Hmph,” he said. “Got some spirit there. Okay, you can wash me. But be gentle, hear me?”

“As gentle as a lamb,” Epiphany said, wringing out her cloth while keeping any triumph out of her smile.

“From the Gulf coast?” he asked as she expertly washed the wound on his thigh, gotten when he'd fallen on his daily walk. Fortunately, the fall didn't break his hip, but the unhealed wounds and bruises brought him to the hospital.

“New Orleans,” Epiphany said.

“Sorry,” Mr. Hoffman said. “Served near there before shipping out in the war. Nice town you had there.”

“It was,” Epiphany said. “Still don't believe what happened.”

“Had to be rough,” he said. “Going back?”

“I don't know, sir,” she said. “I have my parents to take care of. They've got health problems. I can't bring them back without reliable doctors and hospitals nearby to take care of them. There, Mr. Hoffman, we're done. Now I'll take your vitals.”

Mr. Hoffman nodded his approval.

“Good work,” he said. “You can wash me anytime. At least until Melissa comes back.”

* * *

Mary looked through the peephole. Brian Beck stood there in a gray t-shirt and jeans, holding a dented red metal tool box. She opened the door.

“Brian! What a nice surprise!” Mary exclaimed. “Come on in!”

Brian wiped his feet – how thoughtful, Mary thought – and stepped into the foyer.

“Karen said you might need a handyman today,” he said. “So here I am. I'm off today, so tell me what to do.”

Mary clapped her hands in delight.

“Oh, thank you!” she said. “That was so nice of Karen! Wow, let me see ...” Mary looked around vaguely.

“I know!” she said. “I need help putting the guest bed together.”

“Piece of cake,” Brian said, following her upstairs. Mary held the headboard and footboard steady while Brian assembled then attached the frame. Together, they put on the boxspring and mattress, and made the bed.

“Nice quilts,” he said.

“They were from Connor's family,” Mary said. “Most of them had just been sitting in my hope chest. It's nice to use them.”

“It doesn't bother you?”

“No,” Mary said with a gentle smile. “The memories now ... they don't hurt, at least not much. They're just mostly nice. You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” Brian said softly. “I still have some of Henry's things. Had his baby blanket mounted and framed. I never thought I'd get over losing him. But 'getting over' isn't quite right. More like, I survived with my sanity.”

“And you had to mourn your wife, too,” Mary said sympathetically. “That must have been so hard.”

Mary was putting an eyelet-trimmed throw pillow on the bed, and didn't see Brian wince. He'd never told any of the girls about his wife, her lies and manipulation, and how he did not miss or mourn her.

“It was,” he said briefly, not wanting to go down that road. It might get back to Karen. What if it made her think less of him?

“So,” he said more cheerfully, “what's next?”

“I have some pictures to hang,” Mary said.

“And I have a laser level,” Brian said.

* * *

Robin Scorpio's watch vibrated. She set aside the report she was reading and reached for her pills. Then she realized she had nothing to take them with. She decided to head down to the drinking fountain and fill her mug.

As she walked out of office door, she looked down the hallway and grimaced. There, at the water fountain, was Patrick Drake, flirting with yet another nurse.

Can't they see through him? Robin wondered. How can anyone find such smarminess attractive? She unconsciously primmed up her mouth as she approached.

“Excuse me,” she said shortly as she reached the fountain. Oh, great, Patrick thought. Here's Saint Robin to look down on the lowly intern.

“Of course,” he replied in snide politeness. What the hell is his problem? Robin thought.

“Thank you,” she said. Her left hand brushed against his stomach, rock-hard under his scrubs, as she passed him. Flustered, she dropped her pills.

“Oh!” she gasped nervously. Patrick unthinkingly jumped into action.

“Here,” he said, finding some on the floor and putting them in her hand. She scanned them – all were there.

“Thanks!” she said in relief, a smile lighting her face in a way he'd never seen before.

“Glad to help,” Patrick said, surprising himself by smiling back. The nurse did not smile. Robin filled her mug, smiled shyly at both of them, and went back to her office.

Patrick's eyes followed her with a curious gaze. He couldn't figure her out.

“I can't believe how many pills she has to take every day!” the nurse said, speaking softly because Robin had many friends.

“Really,” Patrick said, not letting himself sink to curiosity.

“She went on the HIV cocktail pretty early on, I hear,” the nurse said. She'd seen the way Patrick looked at Robin and wanted that nipped in the bud. HIV would be as good as saltpeter, she figured. His stunned expression seemed to prove her right.

“Wow, I didn't know,” he said.

“She got it from the wing's namesake – Stone Cates,” the nurse went on in a confidential tone. “I hear he was her first love. Oops. Bad choice.”

All of a sudden, Patrick felt impatient and annoyed. He looked at his watch and feigned surprise.

“I'd better get back to the ER,” he said hurriedly, and walked away. The nurse watched him go with a smirk. At least Robin Scorpio won't be a problem, she thought.

* * *

“You're home early,” Felicia Scorpio remarked to her husband, Mac, as he walked in the kitchen.

“Supervising a stakeout tonight,” Mac said. “It'll be a late one. You wrapped up early at the agency, I see.”

Felicia nodded.

“Hungry? I can make you lunch,” she offered.

“Maybe later,” Mac said with a smile. “Right now, I think going to bed is a good idea.”

“Oh, okay,” Felicia said, turning to continue sorting the mail. He gently touched her arm.

“I didn't mean alone,” he said. “Georgie doesn't get home for a few hours ...”

“Georgie's working at Ward House after school today,” Felicia said with a twinkle in her eye. “Then Dillon's taking her to the Pizza Shack, she told me. So ...”

“So ...”

Felicia sauntered over to Mac, a saucy smile on her lips. She inched closer and closer, until their lips were almost touching.

“Race you upstairs!” she said with a grin, then turned and dashed out of the kitchen. After a moment, Mac followed her. He caught her just as she crossed the threshold of the master bedroom, and they made a grand leap onto the bed together. Laughing and breathless, they kissed lightly for a few minutes.

Slowly, as they got their breath, the kisses became more lingering, more intense. Mac's instinctive fingers traced gently up Felicia's spine. She arched herself into him and gasped. With impatient hands, she unbuttoned his shirt and nuzzled his chest. Her hands moved lower and found his belt buckle. Mac groaned in anticipation.

Mac pushed Felicia off him and got up, casting off his pants. He slowly, teasingly, untied her wrap blouse, then deftly unhooked her bra. After dispensing with her jeans, he got back on the bed.

About an hour later, they were spooned under the covers. After making love, Felicia always felt a thrill of relief that she hadn't trashed her marriage during her depression. Meanwhile, Mac always sent up a silent prayer of thankfulness that Felicia had come back from the brink.

“I think I want that sandwich,” Mac said, kissing the back of her neck.

“I think I can't move,” Felicia replied lazily.

“Oh, all right,” Mac growled playfully as he got out of bed and put on his robe.

“Bring me one, too,” Felicia called as he went out the door.

Mac brought her a smoked turkey and cheddar sandwich, with a smear of cranberry jelly. His sandwich was smoked turkey with brown mustard, tomatoes and lettuce. He also brought them both a cold bottle of Stewart's ginger beer.

“Mmmm ... delicious,” Felicia said.

“Worked up a good appetite, huh?” Mac asked with a leer.

“Yep, and we deserve every calorie,” Felicia said with a smile.

“How much longer do we have?”

“Relax,” Felicia said, looking at the clock. “School's not even out yet. Georgie won't be home for another four or five hours at least.”

“Am I a bad dad for kind of liking this empty nest?” Mac asked, half in jest.

“No,” Felicia said, leaning over to stroke his jaw. “This is how it should be. It's our job as parents to get our children ready for this next stage. The 'empty nest' is our reward for raising the girls right. We'll have the space, freedom and privacy to focus on each other.”

“But it's going to be hard, also, letting them go,” Mac said. Felicia looked away, seeing a future where the girls were on their own. What would they be doing? Where would they be? She sighed.

“We've made the first step already,” Felicia said. “Maxie living at school is almost like a trial run. She's doing great. She's so independent. And Georgie is so level-headed. I don't think they'll give us much reason to worry.”

“No reason to worry?” Mac exclaimed. “Have you seen the way Dillon looks at Georgie? It's like he's a starving man and she's an Old Country Buffet! Thank God that Maxie is focused on school and not boys.”

Felicia laughed, then became sober.

“That's the hard part about parenting,” she said. “Letting go and trusting the first 18 years of work will hold up. Georgie will be 18 in a few months, Mac. Soon, she'll be free to do as she chooses. You learned a lot raising Robin ...”

“A lot of hard lessons,” Mac reminded her.

“From which the girls have learned, too,” Felicia said. “This is where the trust comes in. You can talk with them, and they can talk with you, but ultimately, you have to trust them.”

“It's like Taggert with Gia,” Mac said. “He never learned to trust her. Florence let him be too much of the 'man of the house' and he became a control freak with Gia. I wonder how much they really talk anymore.”

“It's too bad,” Felicia said. “But hopefully Cameron can help him with that. Remember how Kevin helped you when Stone died and Robin was diagnosed?”

Mac looked up at the ceiling, a tear running out of the corner of his eye. It wasn't just sadness for what he and Robin went through, it was sadness over what Stone missed the last ten years, and what they missed not having Stone during that time. God only knows what he could have done with himself, Mac thought. Maybe he could've become an artist. Or a writer. Maybe he and Robin would have kids by now – Robert's grandchildren. Or maybe they'd just be a fond memory of first love for each other.

Felicia looked up at him with concern. “Mac?” she asked. He looked down at her with a gentle smile.

“I'm all right,” he said. “Just ... wasting time on what-ifs instead of focusing on the what-is in our lives. And, in spite of some things, it's pretty good. Hopefully it'll stay that way.”

“That doesn't sound cheerful,” Felicia said.

“Sorry, just thinking about the stakeout,” Mac said. “We're trying to get some kind of evidence to put together this gang puzzle. As long as they're out there, so is the mob, licking their chops, wanting to turn this town into the mess Sonny Corinthos tried to make of it.”

“Don't worry,” Felicia said. “You've got some great detectives working for you. You'll figure things out. You always do.”

Mac smiled at her.

“Thanks,” he said. “Now, how about a nap?”

* * *

Maxie Jones rumpled her hair as she left her last class of the day. It was a pretty early autumn day; the leaves would be at their peak soon.

Her courseload – all forensic science classes – was demanding. But she loved being able to immerse herself in her major. She was free until her 10 a.m. class tomorrow. If she went to the library until supper, she'd have the night free.

Just then, Diego Alcazar approached. Maxie felt her insides warm up just a bit. The tight golden brown t-shirt and comfy Levi's flattered him. She smiled weakly, hoping to hide her feelings.

“Hey there,” she said. “Where you headed?”

Diego caught his breath as Maxie's warm, throaty voice made him think of a lazy afternoon in bed.

“Lab,” he said. “What are you up to?”

“Library,” Maxie said, trying not to envision what they could do in the secluded stacks.

“You seem really happy,” Diego said, bitterly wondering if Jesse Beaudry was the cause of her happiness.

“Things are good,” Maxie said vaguely, hoping he wouldn't sense that any happiness came from being around him.

“What are you doing this weekend? The fraternity houses are having a charity fair,” he said.

“I heard,” Maxie said with a smile. “What is your frat doing?”

“We've got Dunk-A-Prof,” Diego said. “Dad's going to be one of the professors in the dunking booth.”

Maxie laughed. “He's a good sport,” she said. “I'll have to stop by.”

“Sure Jesse won't mind?”

“What would he mind?” Maxie asked, puzzled.

“Well, you know, you taking time away from him on the weekends without clearing it and all,” Diego said, fumbling around for the right thing to say and failing abysmally.

Maxie looked at him as if he was crazy.

“Why would I need Jesse's permission to do anything?” she demanded.

“Since you two, are, you know, together and stuff,” Diego said as he realized he was in big trouble.

Maxie flushed, and her eyes got dark and dangerous.

“First of all, no man owns me,” she said, crossing her arms. “Any man who thinks I'd need to clear my comings and goings with him is a freakin' Neanderthal who would have no chance with me. Second, I'm not my sister. Just because I go out with a guy doesn't mean I'm wearing his class ring and letterman's jacket, with nothing coming before him, ever. Third, Jesse is not my boyfriend.”

“But ... but I saw you two together,” Diego stammered.

“Yeah, so?” Maxie said. “We get together once in a while, but it's a long leap between that and registering for wedding gifts. Not that it's anyone's business.”

Diego went from slack-jawed shock to horror to hear Maxie talking like that.

“Maxie, you're better than that,” Diego protested.

“Better than what? Let me ask you something, Diego,” Maxie said, angry and disappointed by what she saw as a judgmental look on Diego's face. “If I was a man, would it be so bad?”

“Don't do that, Maxie,” Diego said. “It's different, and you know it.”

“The only thing I know is that you've got one hell of a double standard, Alcazar,” she said fiercely. “The way it's 'different' for you is that if a girl doesn't want to settle down, she's a slut. If a guy thought that way, like Jesse, he's a stud. But guess what? It's my life and I'm not living it to please the judgmental hypocrites!”

With that, Maxie whirled around and stomped away from Diego.

“Maxie!” he cried after her. She didn't answer. Diego watched her go, tears in his eyes as sadness, anger and an odd feeling of betrayal surged in him.

* * *

“Time to make the magic, people!” Port Charles High School English teacher Pete Marquez said as he strolled into the classroom that housed the office of the school newspaper, The PCHS Advocate.

Lulu Spencer sat on a couch with a notebook, a computer disc, and some printouts on her lap. She'd decided to join the paper after Mr. Marquez told her it would help polish her writing skills for her upcoming college application essays. Also, it was good to have something to do. Since she was on her father's Orange Alert, her comings and goings after school were pretty constricted.

Working on the paper was also a chance to get to know people outside of her close circle of Georgie Jones, Brooke Lynn Ashton and Serena Baldwin. Georgie was wrapped up in Dillon Quartermaine and her volunteer work at Ward House. Brooke Lynn preferred to keep her afternoons free for songwriting and helping out at L&B records. Serena, as president of the junior class and a student government representative, had enough to do.

Damien Spinelli sat nearby, fiddling with one of the paper's laptops. He'd come to idolize Lulu, continuing to call her “Blonde Goddess,” and joining the newspaper to be around her. Lulu was by turns touched and annoyed by Spinelli. She'd seen him be smart and helpful. But she'd also seen him be irritating beyond reason, with his stilted, affected way of speaking and obsessive ways.

While Spinelli could bug, he was also quite useful. He'd already earned the respect of the editor and Pete by setting up a mail server on the paper's computers, upgrading the laptops with new software when the school tech workers couldn't be bothered, and creating a database archive for all the Advocate stories written in the last 10 years. He was also setting up a database system for the sports staff, where box scores could be input and statistics kept.

“Editors, let's meet,” Pete, the paper's adviser, said. “Layout people, we'll need all page proofs in 30 minutes. Reporters, grab a proof and get to proofreading. Don't forget to initial your pages this time, Lulu. Spinelli, stop hitting the return key so hard. You're gonna break it.”

Lulu picked up a proof and began reading. About a half-hour later, the meeting broke up. She turned in a printout of her story to an editor, then went back to proofreading as she waited for questions and comments.

“Lulu, I'd like to see you a moment,” Pete said, motioning her towards the private editor's office. He was in there alone.

“Is my story all right?”

“It's perfectly fine,” Pete said.

“That's not a ringing endorsement,” Lulu replied.

“Look, Lulu, it's fine for what it is, considering you've never covered a sports event before,” Pete said. “But you need work on narrative writing. It's a challenging style. I think a little outside assignment, not for grading or the paper, might help you a bit.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to interview someone and tell the story of an event or adventure or crisis in their life,” Pete said. “The length is up to you, because I want to see your judgment in that. Can you do it by Monday?”

“Monday?!” Lulu said. “No way, Mr. Marquez! I've got a math test on Thursday and I'm going to see my mom in New York this weekend.”

“No problem,” Pete said. “Give it another week. Maybe your mom can give you a story to tell.”

God knows she has plenty of them, living the life she has, Lulu thought.

* * *

“Dinner is served,” Alice announced.

The Quartermaines entered the dining room. Monica was still at the hospital. Ned was working late.

“Where's Jason?” Dillon asked, as he passed the platter of Cornish game hens.

“He won't be home until later,” Alan said. “He called this afternoon and said he was going to go help Sam McCall out at her new house and would just eat there or they'd go out.”

“Really?” Justus said with a raised eyebrow. “This is, what, the third time in a week he's been over there. Hm.”

“Hm, indeed,” Brooke Lynn chimed in with a wicked laugh.

“Come on,” Alan said mildly. “Have your fun, but don't bug Jason about it.”

“Yeah, let's not give him any ideas,” Carly said sourly.

“What's your problem with Jason being ... friends with Sam?” Dillon asked.

“Or more!” Brooke chirped.

Carly shot her a Death Glare on par with Luke's best.

“He hasn't been back that long,” she said sharply. “The last thing he needs is to get mixed up with some God-knows-who from God-knows-where who wants God-knows-what from him.”

“Not fair, Carly,” Alan said sternly. “A lot of people know – and like – Sam. She's a darn fine paramedic, and has been a big help with Jason's rescue squad training.”

Carly made a sour-lemon face.

AJ had said nothing but watched Carly's reactions. He'd never been able to forget that mysterious phone call right before he took her and the boys to Martha's Vineyard.

“Your brother's out for what's yours.” echoed again and again in his mind.

Maybe she's seeing that I'm a loser after all, AJ thought dismally. Then shoved the thought – almost – out of his mind.

Don't be ridiculous, he told himself. Jason wouldn't do that.

Would he?